


The Beautiful Ones

by devourme



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Angst, Bottom Harry, Bottom Zayn, Boys Kissing, Europe, F/F, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gen, M/M, New York, Pining, Sex, Smut, South America, Top Harry, Top Zayn, Versatile zarry, drugs and alcohol, zarry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 12:58:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11082072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devourme/pseuds/devourme
Summary: When Harry met Zayn, he knew he wanted him; he was dangerous and smart.And now—even at thirty years old, nearly six years later, Harry wants him bad as ever.





	The Beautiful Ones

**Author's Note:**

> brazilian characters, with a bit too much of harry with men, nothing of nouis, a fair amount of liam, a little of james franco, too much of reece king, some drugs, money, sex—featuring zarry as the crazy fucking protagonists.

_**december, 2019** _

 

"Uno," Harry counts. His long, pale fingers slide across the money like magnets. "Dos, três, quatro, cinco.."

Suddenly, he stops.

"There's over enough here." He grins back at Paco. "Are you trying to make me richer than I already am?"

Brown eyes burn into his green ones, and the man dips his pink tongue tongue out of his mouth to roll over his lips. Paco brings a hand up, stroking his beard, and shaking his head at the foreigner.

“Think of it as a gift—can't I join in on the Christmas spirit too?”

Harry throttles with laughter, and a soft chuckle soon escapes Paco's mouth. It's uncommon, and it's unfamiliar to Harry how he has managed to reach this point with any of these people.

“Have a great break, Paco,” He says, slipping away from the heat of the man. He trudges away, not before hearing the Latino's gravelly voice.

“Don't forget about the twenty fourth, boy; Brazilian women, wine, celebrities and even a christmas tree. Thiago and Judas will be looking forward to seeing you.”

Harry grins as he walks away. The thought of reuniting with the many friends he has made in South America, and across Europe, warms his heart. He has spent nearly five years in New York, and throughout his time spent in the city of lights, he has encountered more men than money.

And—he's really _fucking_ rich. Practically drowning in it.

He didn't need to make money, was the thing. He was reach enough to buy the most gorgeous woman, or fittest man alive. Eight years ago, he could've never bought what he can now.

He makes more money, not because he needs it to survive, but because it's better than having sex with every man that takes the sting away for a little while. It keeps him sane; keeps the shitty thoughts away.

It's better than remembering.

 

 

**_april, 2014_ **

  
“Stop fucking about, mate,” Harry watches with clamped lips as Zayn strides over toward the loveseat.

Liam's squished up into the far corner, while he plays Fifa with Reece, and between them, Alejandro has an arm wrapped around Harry's shoulders. The incredulous look Zayn gives Alejandro makes Harry's skin crawl.

“We've gotta make the drop tomorrow night, yet you're here, chatting shit.”

Alejandro leans forward upon hearing that, and Harry stays quiet. He silently yearns for Liam to say something, because he's new and he fucking knows, getting onto Zayn's bad side isn't worth it.

“And?"

"Fucking and, you've yet to cook any ice. Instead, you're lazing around.”

“Exactly. I cook the ice,” Harry tilts his head to the side, eyeing Alejandro. The older guy has his tongue tucked between his pink lips, and the lip ring he's sporting, disappears for a brief second. “You, sell it.”

Liam peeks up from the flatscreen television, eyeing both Zayn and Alejandro.

“Without me, and without my bank, you wouldn't even be making any ice right now, mate.”

“Tell me,” Alejandro starts. He loosens his grip from around Harry's shoulder, pulling back away from his body, yet still managing to grasp the collar of his shirt. “How do you suppose we even make any bank without my ice?”

“Fuck off. It's not rocket science.” Zayn licks his lips, immediately cutting the blond off. He pushes one hand into the back of his jeans, pulling out a pack of cigarettes, “I can easily find someone else to cook for us. You're not that special, you're barely the distributor.”

“Chemistry is science, and cooking meth—that's fucking science.” Alejandro speaks up, almost begrudgingly. “Bet you can't tell me what the fuck hydroidic acid is, anyway.”

“Christ. That's enough,” Liam finally says. There's a stern, yet soft tone to his voice, and Harry's entirely thankful. He peers up from the flatscreen, gesturing Reece to pause the match.

The atmosphere has drifted, and it's uncomfortable now, with Alien's arm around his shoulders and Zayn towering over him with so much negative energy.

“We're making a drop tomorrow night. It doesn't matter who cooks, or who doesn't cook,” he says, facing the screen once more. Reece lunges forward on the beanbag with his controller in hand. “At the end of the day, we're still all equally important in this.”

Liam doesn't mean to take anyone's side, Harry can sense it. He prefers balance, fair relationships, and less conflict. Except, Zayn's royally pissed.

“Fuck off.”

Harry watches with raised eyebrows as Zayn makes his way out of the lounge area, instead disappearing into the kitchen. It feels wrong, to allow him to leave like that. After all, he was the one who managed to take Harry out of his continuous cycle of boredom.

“I'll make sure he's fine,” is all Harry says, before he's shrugging out of Alejandro's hold, and instead standing up from the sofa. Alejandro doesn't seem pleased, instead, he seems confused and surprised all at once.

The kitchen is minimally large enough, and the window behind it is so big, that Harry can see the entire ocean ahead of the beach house.  
  
It's as though Zayn feels Harry's presence before he sees it. The Muslim man turns around, a long cigarette pushed between his thin, pink lips, while he holds onto the Pokemon themed lighter. His caramel eyes are trained on Harry's, and Harry wants nothing more than to kiss the worry lines off from his forehead. He wants to push his hands into Zayn's hair, and make him groan out in satisfaction. He wants to massage his body until he feels numb, and at ease. He wants to make him feel better.

But—he knows it would mean nothing. He's just trying to help a friend in need. And right now, Zayn's stressed, and in need.

“Sorry you had to see the shitty side of me, yeah?” Zayn says around the cigarette. He looks handsome from over here, and even with hundreds of tiles between the two men, Harry can make out each and every fucking freckle on his face.

“Haven't got a shitty side,” he chooses to reassure him. The corners of Harry's mouth tilt up into a friendly smile, before he drags his shoes across the tiles of the kitchen, instead resting his body back against the kitchen cupboards. “I just think you're stressed, and that's totally fine. Okay?”

Zayn lifts a brow, taking the cigarette out from between his lips. Before Harry knows it, Zayn is beside him, resting a hip against the cupboard, while he peers at the taller man.

“Hm,” he hums, seemingly amused. “You think I'm stressed?”

“You guys are doing the drop tomorrow.” Harry reminds him, before turning his body, and resting his hip against the cupboard, like Zayn. “I mean, fuck. Even I would he stressed about something like that.”

Zayn nods his head, though he stays silent. He lifts his hand once more, this time curling his lips around the cigarette, and taking an achingly slow drag. He blows the smoke out, making sure to blow it in any direction except Harry's.

“I am stressed, but your new presence is keeping me a little sane.”

If Harry's heart skips a beat, and his hands become clammy, he doesn't mention it; doesn't even believe it.

“But, the thing is. Alejandro's just...Bad news. He's always been bad fucking news.” The confession seems to agitate Zayn, and he immediately takes another drag from the cigarette, blowing the smoke out. “He's nearly ruined a lot of things for us. As fucked up as it sounds, you're better than hanging out with him.”

“You're saying I shouldn't talk to Alejandro?”

“I'm just saying, Alien's not your cup of tea.”

“I don't even like tea, anyway,” Harry bites back smartly. He grins, and Zayn notices the way his gigantic dimple indents his cheek. Soon enough, it leaves Zayn craning his head while a chuckle leaves his mouth.

“You're fucking smooth, Styles,” he hums out, smirking. He takes one more drag from the cigarette, and this time, he uses his other hand to push the collar of Harry's shirt down. It's floral. Royal blue, and floral.

“Blue's my favourite colour,” is all Zayn says when Harry goes quiet. “Think it looks pretty on you.”

Zayn's hand slides down his arm until his thumb slides across the bone of his wrist. Harry eyes the sudden movement, yet he manages to be nonchalant; it's not that much of a big deal, anyway. Zayn wraps his fingers around Harry's wrist, before lifting his hand, and observing the many rings around his fingers.

Zayn doesn't say anything, and neither does Harry.

“You collect 'em then, huh?” Zayn asks, more to himself than Harry. He reaches a specifically unique ring; tracing his fingertip across the engraving of dancing bears, before he licks over his lips.

He averts his gaze, instead eyeing Harry.

“Sometimes.” He says; voice soft, yet audibly clear.

Zayn hums once again, and he seems genuinely curious. Curious to the point where he's flirting over fucking rings and flannels.

“Gotta show me the rest of your collection soon.”


End file.
